The spitfire, copper-haired banshee said we weren’t going to talk to each other after our six months were up, but she was wrong for assuming she could get rid of me that easily. I was already fantasizing about killing her in various positions, landscapes, and with different weapons once this was over. Cue to:
Me strangling Sailor against a Sicilian sunset.
Me slitting Sailor’s throat while we wore matching swimsuits in the Bahamas.
Me pushing Sailor off an aerial tramway on a picturesque Aspen vacation.
Sometimes in the fantasies she was asleep, but more often than not she was wide awake and fully conscious, witnessing her demise.
I’d spent the night on the couch because I didn’t want to sleep in my garbage-filled room, and there was no way I was cleaning up the mess she’d left there.
Look, maybe I wasn’t completely innocent. In the time before Sailor inhabited this place, I might have thrown myself a pity party and dirtied up my new apartment to make shit uncomfortable for her, too. But she didn’t have to make a big deal about it.
I slept in nothing but my boxer briefs. When I woke up with a hard-on like a supersized German sausage—the kind that makes you wrestle with your own dick during your morning pee—I hoped she’d caught a glimpse of it before she scurried along to her boring day of shooting objects and skipping off into the sunset, holding hands with her hymen.
That’s right, Sailor. You aren’t the only asshole under this roof with a deadly weapon.
Which brought me to my next point—who the fuck does that? Just took shots at nothing? She didn’t hunt or do anything productive with her talent, just aimed at useless targets. Why was this an Olympic sport? Archery was checkers for anal people.
“Sir, we’re here,” my driver murmured from the front seat.
My first day working for Da and Cillian. And I needed to somehow pass my college exams this year. I was going to split community college in the evenings and work during the day fifty-fifty. I wasn’t a math genius, but even I knew that left zero time for having a life. Da had really ridden my ass this time around, bided his time while I was having fun in California before he shoved a ten-inch dildo up my rectum. I was feeling sore and tender even before he got the goddamn tip in.
We were on day two of one hundred and eighty-two, but who the fuck was counting?
(Answer: me. I was counting.)
I stumbled out of the executive car and shouldered through the human traffic of downtown Boston, dragging my feet into Royal Pipeline’s crazy-tall, chrome skyscraper that ninety-five percent of Bostonians actively hated so much, there had been frequent demonstrations outside when they started building. The monster had ruined the city’s skyline, but it was who was inside it that had personally ruined my life.
The best thing about the day, other than not spending it with Sailor Goddamn Brennan, was that I got to wear a Brioni suit. Wearing suits was my favorite. I didn’t even pretend to need an occasion. I went to parties, the movies, and restaurants looking like Jay Gatsby.
I spent half an hour with security getting my name tag, electronic card, and a ton of other bullshit, then proceeded up to the eighth floor, where my father’s office was.
I skulked over to main reception and approached a pretty receptionist with eyes so vacant she could pass as a life-sized Barbie.
Bet she can bend her knees, though.
“’Sup. Hunter Fitzpatrick’s in the house.” I parked an elbow on her counter. “Where’s my office?”
Two severe-looking men behind me snorted to each other, shook their heads, and walked away. The blonde stared at me with a mix of horror and reluctance. Maybe I was giving her aggressive vibes because I hadn’t had my dick sucked in almost two weeks.
“E-e-electronic card?” she stuttered, almost flinching. I was persona non grata inside these glass walls, which led me to believe I wasn’t seeing the entire picture. Why was she scared?
I flashed her the card I’d received when I entered the building, letting it snap back into my front blazer’s pocket after she scanned it.
“F-f-follow me.”
With the ginger steps of a lab mouse, she led me past the main area of the office space, which had gold-and-black marble flooring, floor-to-ceiling windows, and long desks occupied by MacBooks, hot-ass secretaries, personal assistants, and mail boys running busily from corner to corner.
Enveloping the room were fishbowl-like offices. The biggest one belonged to Da, followed by Cillian’s (second biggest), and Syllie’s (third biggest). Blondie led me to an ancient-looking oak desk that appeared to have been dragged from Dr. Frankenstein’s basement, complete with a phone and a computer monitor from the eighties. You know, the brick-like thing that resembles a medieval weapon. The makeshift station was glued to my father’s glass wall.